


Nocturne: Book 1

by venusm



Series: Nocturne Tenebris [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Fuck Or Die, HP: EWE, M/M, Praise Kink, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 07:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venusm/pseuds/venusm
Summary: You can’t end a war with a single death.  The hatred, the divisions, the cruelty, the heartbreak, it doesn’t end on a single morning.  As the wizarding community in Britain struggles to rebuild, magic itself begins to fracture, mirroring the fractures in society.Spells fail, wards fall, and unpredictable explosions of power shatter brick and mortar, blood and bone.The Ritual of Reconciliation is an ancient blood magic ritual that should, if successful, slowly begin to heal the wounds War brings.At its heart, the rite marries two people, one from each side.  The husband must come from those who lost.  The bride must come from those who won.The more tied to the conflict the respective spouses, the more beloved by their respective peoples, the more successful the ritual, because blood magic is old magic and the oldest magic?Requiressacrifice.Or, how Harry and Draco wind up in an old fashioned pureblood-style traditional marriage and have to fuck every night lest magic die.TLDR: kink, worldbuilding, darkness, love, drinking, pureblood customs, potions, wizarding homes, jewelry, sex, pain, roses, body adornment, rituals, and a dread portal python named Arky.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This year has felt like a betrayal. You know that epilogue? That felt like a betrayal, too.
> 
> Nocturne is how I've coped with 2017. I wrote it entirely to amuse myself, and I'm sharing it because... I wanted to, that's all. 
> 
> What I love most about the books is the way she doesn’t turn away from the betrayals of life, the way she doesn’t ignore the pain, or the sadness, or the difficulty. As a writer, I always wanted to have the guts to write, “Good one, James,” if that’s the words the story spoke, a refusal to look away from the truth of what people are, rather than what people should be.
> 
> This story, the one I’m posting, is my answer to the betrayal of that fucking epilogue. 
> 
> Because you know what? You don’t get raised in a cupboard and turn out normal. You don’t die for other people and walk away sane. You don’t kill the dark lord and instantly end the War. 
> 
> Life doesn’t work like that. People don’t work like that. 
> 
> But I thought then, and I still think, that Harry could get a happy ending. He could. Cupboard or not, sacrifice or not, he could get a happy ending. Not the one where he’s suddenly normal, but still—a happy ending. And so this is what I wrote. A couple hundred thousand words of getting the boy in the cupboard to a happy ending, without pretending none of it happened. 
> 
> However.
> 
> This story is dark. Sexual and dark.
> 
> I am posting this story as choose-not-to-warn. 
> 
> You will learn later that Harry has a plaque on his desk at work, a gift, and instead of his name it reads: Woe, Destruction, Ruin and Decay. 
> 
> It's from Richard II, and the full quote is "Woe, Destruction, Ruin and Decay; the worst is Death and Death will have his day."
> 
> So.
> 
> Thus is my last warning: Assume there will be darkness, for with people, here be monsters.

_Deathly Hallows_ ends in May, 1998. This story begins two years after, late summer, 2000.

*

It starts, of course, with the Malfoys.

Looking back, Harry could start it elsewhere.

With the end of the War, with the trial, with the beginning of the fracture of magic, with when—but…really, it starts with the Malfoys.

That’s how Harry sees it. That’s how it feels.

It starts with the Malfoys.

*

Harry receives her owl with the rest of his official Senior Auror Potter letters at work, but he uses a local Post Owl to reply instead of official channels.

They agree to meet at 4 pm on a Tuesday.

He waits for her in the Atrium, and he’s already spoken to the MLE officer on duty about her clearance and badge. If she’s surprised by the courtesy, she doesn’t say, and they ride the lift in silence, alone. When they reach the right floor, he leads her through a short back hallway instead of the bullpen, until they reach Dawlish’s old office.

It’s small, for an office, and shabby, but it has two comfortable armchairs by the artificial window. The shelves are full of old manuals and unfinished paperwork, the desk is still a mess, and the carpet is worn.

“I understand they’ve chosen McNair as the husband for the ritual ceremony,” is how she begins.

“Yes,” Harry says.

“I also understand Ginevra has agreed to the match.” Narcissa Malfoy looks cool and unruffled in a perfect dark gown of deep blue gray. It’s somber, with elegant embroidery in paler grays and silvers, all along the hem. She looks like she’s stepped out of an illustration for other times. “That she’s agreed to the provisions of the Ritual, also.”

“Yes,” Harry says again, and nothing more.

She knows the answer to these questions. Anything he says, anything at all, will only delay what she truly wishes to tell him.

“I have brought you a memory,” she says. “Of McNair. I won’t let it be used in a trial, but I believe you should witness it.”

An interesting choice of words, but Harry only nods and fetches the pensieve on the shelf.

She’s brought the memory with her, already in a vial, a clear white smoke of truth.

When it’s poured out and the clouds swirl in the stone bowl, he says, “Will you be joining me?”

“I would rather not,” she says, voice perfectly pleasant, “but thank you.”

*

Harry comes out of the memory, stands up, and fetches the bottle from the lower left drawer of the desk. He finds two mugs, places them on the little table between the two armchairs, pours out a generous dose into each.

“You have a strong stomach,” she says, taking her mug and sipping.

Harry sits, drinks half in one go, blows three smoke rings in silence, letting her watch him, the way he was taught, says politely, “Merely an experienced one.”

“She cannot be allowed to marry McNair.”

“No,” Harry says evenly. “She cannot.”

They sit in silence some more, and Harry lets them. It’s Lewison who taught him this, the power of an open silence, the gift of it, how it can create a space between two people. He finishes his first round, blowing a few more smoke rings, then tops them both up.

“I don’t believe I’ve had this particular whiskey before,” she says at last.

“Ridgeback Rye, 20 year,” Harry says, answers her unspoken question. “A good one for toasts and bad days.”

“Excellent smoke.”

“Yes.” Harry watches her blow a few smoke rings this time, his focus on the smoke and not her face, and knows she’s watching him.

*

Talking to Narcissa isn’t like talking to Lucius. She’s less content with the silences, Harry thinks, and her hands give her away, clenched just a little too tightly on the Tower of London mug, black with a few chips. Lucius would fill the silence, would wind the topics where he wants, would wrest for control.

She doesn’t.

*

“This isn’t your office, is it.”

“I don’t have an office.” Harry glances up from pouring, smiles wryly, goes back to it. “Not anymore.”

*

He’s slouched sideways in the chair, feet outstretched, ankles crossed, absently gazing at the far wall, enjoying his third, when she finally speaks.

“Mr Potter, that is—” she tries again. “Auror. Senior Auror.”

Harry glances over, isn’t surprised she’s looking at her mug. “It’s all right,” he says gently. “Tell me what I can do for you, Mrs Malfoy.”

But she doesn’t answer.

Harry goes back to his whiskey, finishes his third round, lets his eyes drift half-shut.

*

The question, when it comes, is soft, a whisper. “Do you believe in the sanctity of marriage, Mr Potter?”

“No.” Harry blows out smoke through his nostrils. “I don’t.”

She’s surprised, he can tell, even without looking. “You don’t?”

“No.” He could tell her that most Aurors don’t. Not after a few 14-22s, but that’s not what she’s asking. “I don’t believe in much, not any more. Tell me how I can help you, Mrs Malfoy.”

“What makes you think I need help?”

Harry glances over, keeps his gaze lazy, gentle, his body soft. “You’re finishing your rounds.”

Her hands tighten on the mug. “What would you do if I asked for your help?”

Harry looks at the wall again, blows another smoke ring. “Help you.”

*

Eventually, he hears the click of the mug on the table, and he looks over.

She looks up at him, her gaze determined. “What would you do, to get her out of that marriage?”

Sometimes, you have to give to get, that’s what Lewison said, and sometimes, you have to let yourself show. Harry shuts his eyes briefly, because the illusion of safety makes it easier, then opens them again, meets her gaze, lets her see whatever she’ll see. “You know the answer to that.”

*

“Would you really help me?”

“I would.” Harry’s tolerance is pretty good these days, but it’s still a lot of whiskey. “Tell me how I can help you, Mrs Malfoy.”

Silence again.

Maybe it’s time to try something else. It feels like it is, but Harry’s not as good at this as— “Narcissa. I can offer you protection, if that’s what you need.”

“For me?”

Ah.

“Or for Draco.”

“You’d help him?” The knuckles whiten, rings flashing. “Even though—”

“I’d help him.” Harry pours out another generous measure. “Even though.”

*

“Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

“For what? Getting drunk at work?” Harry tips some more back, laughs. “No.”

*

“Harry?”

“Mm?” Harry looks up.

“You have blood on you.” She has a clean white handkerchief in her hand, faintly wet from the charm he felt her cast. She tucks his hair behind his ear, washes his face like he’s a misbehaved toddler, but sure enough, when she draws the little folded linen square back, it’s rusty with dried blood.

“What’s this all about?” His hair has already escaped.

She holds it back with her other hand to get at a spot under his jaw. “An opportunity is coming.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She’s scrubbing a bit now, gripping his chin. “Hold still. An opportunity is coming. When you see it, I want you to seize it.”

“And you think I’ll recognize it, this opportunity?”

“I do.” The handkerchief is refolded to a clean corner. “Mine is a traditional marriage. It’s not for everyone, but it has its compensations.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.” She finishes up the left side, sits back. “Even though, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I was a bit, yeah.”

“There. That’s better. You’ll still need a good bath, but this will do for now.” The handkerchief vanishes into a pocket. “Thank you for meeting with me. It was a pleasure.”

Harry knocks back the last of his mug, stands, offers her a hand up. “The pleasure was mine.”

*

All Harry can think, when he hears what he hears in the meeting, a few days later, is that she was right.

It is an opportunity, and he does recognize it.

But seeing it, seeing what that opportunity is—it makes him laugh. It’s a little bitter, maybe, but real enough.

“Something amusing, Senior Auror Potter?” Kingsley Shacklebolt asks, nonplussed.

“Pretty amusing, yeah.” Harry wishes he had another mug of whiskey. He’d blow a few smoke rings, in her honor. “To replace Ginny as the bride of the victors, we’d have to have someone who was even more crucial to the War, someone even more beloved by our side, someone whose magic was even more powerful or more stable, correct?”

“That is correct,” the Unspeakable Croaker says, meeting his gaze while everyone else is confused.

“There isn’t anyone,” Shacklebolt says, and he sounds tired. “We’ve been over all the options, Harry. I’m sorry, I am. Deeply sorry, on a personal level, but there isn’t anyone. Not one who will accept the terms, not one the other side will accept, not one more powerful or stable or beloved than Ginevra.”

“I think you’ll find you’re wrong about that.” Harry glances at the Senior Ministers, and most of them still look confused.

“We’ve looked at all the—” puts in one.

“McNair was willing to accept whoever we picked,” Harry says, going back to Croaker, “but there’s another candidate for the conquered husband, isn’t there. A more senior one. But his family wouldn’t accept Ginny as a bride. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Croaker says, over the sudden murmurs. It’s clear some of them knew this, but most of them didn’t.

“The bigger the sacrifice, the better the outcome?” Harry asks softly, not looking away, ignoring the questions, Kingsley’s attempt to interrupt.

“Yes,” Croaker says again, keeping his gaze even. “That is correct.”

Of course it is.

Harry thinks of Narcissa’s questions, how he answered. What he believes in. What he’d do. And what he is.

“My magic is stable,” Harry says evenly. “And I’m closer to the center of the War. Kingsley, send a delegate to Lucius Malfoy and ask him if Draco is willing to be the conquered husband if I’m the bride.”

*

The official answer will come in a day or two, with the initial demands for contract, for dowry, for payments and conditions and dates and arrangements, but Harry gets an owl less than an hour later. It has a single piece of parchment tied to its scaly leg. Harry removes it, hands over a few owl treats, sits back in his chair, puts his boots up on his reports, unrolls the scroll, finds it watermarked with a moonflower in a soft silver that feels oddly familiar.

It contains just one word, written in an elegant, simple hand in indigo ink:

_yes_


	2. Chapter 2

_One week later._

Draco attends the opening of the negotiations between the two committees, held at Grimmauld Place. The Manor is too weighty with the last War for some of the Order’s people, but that isn’t the reason. It’s tradition that dictates the bride’s family host the opening negotiations first, so the prospective husband has a better chance to view the family coffers on display. Not to mention the bride himself.

It’s Potter, however, so Draco expected the house to be in wrack and ruin, the way Mother described it during her aunt’s day.

But whatever other faults Potter might possess, he has at least inherited a house elf who knows his business.

Every surface gleams, the old wood brought bright with polish, the silk wallpaper sheening, the goblin-wrong silver trimmings glittering. Even the chandelier is perfect, not a single crystal missing, not a tiny dribble of spent wax, just golden perfect light scattering like fairy glamor over the entryway’s dim and forbidding old magics.

The Malfoys arrive together, naturally, with a handful of their closest associates, solicitors, and relations. They should be greeted at the door by the most senior dowager Potter’s family possesses, and it’s a bit startling to see Mrs Molly Weasely standing there in a perfectly respectable formal robe, saying polite hellos to each person who enters.

“Welcome to Grimmauld Place, dear,” she tells Draco, her smile appropriate but her eyes sharp, “Harry’s just upstairs, waiting for you.”

Which is all proper and correct, but completely absent of any words of approval whatsoever, or even hinted welcome from someone else, no, ‘he’s looking forward to seeing you’ and no ‘he mentioned the gift you sent’. She doesn’t even say, ‘How nice you look,’ which frankly, Draco does, since it took the tailor five fucking fittings to get his robes right for this. She doesn’t comment on the delegates, either, but Draco is the proposed husband. He’s supposed to be able to read her initial reaction to his suit by the nature of the compliments.

Predictably, once inside, Father says, “The Weaselys have always been—”

Mother shushes him and says, “But the Prewetts haven’t been. Draco, darling, why don’t you go find Harry.”

Unspoken hang the words, ‘I’ll handle your Father,’ so Draco goes.

But already, he knows, even if Father doesn’t, or won’t, that Potter’s family matriarch is dead set against this match. Draco isn’t sure how much influence she has, if any, but he can’t forget that whatever her manners, whatever her deplorable lack of wealth, whatever idiotic nincompoops she raised as her children, she is still the witch who killed Aunt Bellatrix.

*

Draco makes it to the appointed room upstairs, but he’s waylaid immediately, and it takes him some hard maneuvering with his best formal court manners to get even five steps in the door. It’s a big room, hung with dark peacock blue-green silk and paneled with dark wood, but there’s fine old art on several walls, the carpets are extraordinary, even for an old house like this, and the furniture has been reupholstered recently with silk patterned in dark greens and blues, all abstracts, touched with the Black silver in little filials and curliques.

At last, there’s a break in the crowd, and Draco spots him.

Potter is standing with a cluster of extremely senior Ministry wizards and looking predictably dour, like he’s at a funeral rather than a courtship talk. The robes he’s wearing are correct, in their way, but whoever is doing his tailoring should be stunned and tossed in a river. They’re too loose in the shoulders, the cut of the back is wrong, and the sleeves must be uncomfortable because he’s already rolled them up, the lunatic.

Even the color is subtly terrible. It’s blue, technically in fashion, but far too bright, a cobalt rather than a navy or blue gray. The color doesn’t compliment his looks the way it should. Instead of highlighting the stern lines and serious eyes, giving him the gravitas a senior conquering wizard deserves, the cheerful color makes him look grumpy and sad. The hem doesn’t even show off his crests, it’s just a rather random collection of magical flowers, the sort a generic pureblood bride would be allowed, instead of what any fashion savvy tailor would gleefully find fit to bedeck him with. Potter has the right to use the English roses, for heavens sake, and the Stars, and—

But another time, Draco reminds himself, and maybe this is an area where he can be of active assistance. Mother had given him a little task for today—find five areas of Potter’s life where Draco’s active assistance would be a kindness. That’s how she’d phrased it, because it’s Mother, and because, if he’s honest, Draco would have said ‘active assistance to make Potter less of a disaster’ or a git or a stupid lout or—

Not helpful.

Draco smiles at another delegate, says a few words, trying to slip past, but is immediately waylaid by the worst old battleaxe in society.

Of course, of course, she has to assail him, and of course, he can’t just escape.

If he doesn’t make it to Potter in another three seconds, Potter’s going to take insult. It’s what he does, and it would be well within his rights, and—

This is a disaster and Father will kill him for fucking this up, especially now, extra especially now.

Draco frantically tries to compliment his way out of the situation, then tries to just be honest that he needs to go meet the bride, then just throws caution to the wind and begs to be excused, but not one word does a bit of good.

She’s got him cornered, and Draco is doomed.

“Excuse me,” says a grating, familiar female voice just behind Draco’s left ear, “Mrs Smith? I wondered if I could ask you about Smith Cottage. I’ve been doing a bit of research on traditional wizarding homes in Britain, and the Smith Cottage came up as—”

The ancient Smith dowager whips away from Draco as though he never even existed, a feat Draco hadn’t believed possible. She’s infamous, and terrible, and rude, a woman impossible to interrupt or escape, ever, but she is now gone, trotting after Granger to another corner and already gesturing with her whipple-wood cane. Draco can hear a few words, “beveled” and “13th century of course” and “tradition,” but he turns away, turns back.

Potter is looking at him, a little half-smile at the corner of his mouth, and he lifts his drink in his silent salute, then, to Draco’s astonishment, crooks a finger, almost playfully.

“You sent her over,” Draco says, glancing back at where Granger seems, against all possible reason, earnestly interested in what the hideous old bat is saying.

“You’d never have got free, otherwise,” Potter says, which is true, but—

“No one gets free from that boring old windbag,” Draco says darkly.

“You did.” This time Potter’s half smile is warmer, as though pleased with himself, a little wry but not at all smug, not insulting, and all right, maybe he has a right to be pleased with himself.

And suddenly, Draco realizes, if he’d witnessed this at any other formal courtship meeting, he’d make note of it, mention it to Mother, even mention it to Father, that the prospective bride could outmaneuver the Smith dowager, the kind of social cunning any Malfoy heir would kill for in a bride, and had.

“I did,” Draco says, and gives him the sort of half-bow he’d use for a Greengrass. “Thank you.”

“It was no trouble, really.” Potter finishes his drink and sets it down on a table, on the fine finish of the wood, not the linen, as though he can’t be bothered to care or doesn’t even known it can leave a watermark. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you. Come on.”

Potter leads him through the crowd to the very back of the room, nimbly avoiding all social interaction, until they’re past the people and into a little nook created in the corner with a bookcase and a whatnot shelf.

Potter strokes a hand down the wood paneling of one wall, looking suddenly fond, and then there’s a door, narrow but open, and they step into a short dark hallway, then through another door, into a small room already lit with a few candles. It’s much different than the polished room they left behind. These walls have been stripped but not yet re-papered, there are dust-sheets over a few piles of furniture, there are supplies of some sort in one corner.

“Sorry,” Potter says, “but I wanted somewhere private. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Draco says. “I wanted a word with you myself. Did you bring us here for…?”

Potter raises his eyebrows. “Dark sexual escapades? No.”

Draco refuses, refuses, to let himself flush. “I meant,” he says rather tightly, “the kiss.”

“I thought that wasn’t until after the preliminary contract.”

“Not the formal kiss,” Draco says impatiently, then stops, because—he cannot afford to let Potter wind him up. If Draco destroys these negotiations out of impatience or old schoolboy rivalries, their family fortunes will sink into worse than nothing.

“I think, Potter,” Draco says much more gently, “that maybe people haven’t been telling you everything.”

The amusement and warmth vanish, replaced by the grim seriousness Draco’s more used to seeing on his features these days.

“I get that a lot,” Potter says, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at the floor. “Look, Malfoy, what I wanted to ask you about wasn’t the kiss or whatever. I wanted to know if this is something your father put you up to.”

“You—what?”

“I know you don’t like me, and I know your family is having a rough time. There’s a lot of…pressure right now to fix the magic, and this is how they’ve decided to do it. I don’t want you to be forced into something, here.”

Draco just stares at him. This is the most bizarre conversation he’s had since— Well, a very long time. “What would you do if I said I was forced into this?”

“Get you out of it.” Potter’s mouth firms into a hard line and he shoves away from the wall. “Right. I’ll make sure no one goes to Azkaban. You have my word.”

“You—” Draco stops. Potter is serious. He’s willing to completely tank the complex negotiations, he’s willing to— “Potter, they will marry you to _McNair_.”

“I’m pretty sure I can stop that,” Potter says, resting his shoulder against the stripped wall again, as though he’s going to explain the plan, talking thoughtfully, as though he’s discussing a complex spell for class, or a match, or something other than the complete destruction of his life. “There are other candidates, not as high up, maybe, but—”

“Oh, and you think the _Lestrange nephew_ will be an improvement?” Draco is horrified “Are you— Potter, you _can’t_.”

He just shrugs. “Anyway. I figured as much. Look, I’ll tell you my plan, and you can see if—”

“No,” Draco says, holding up a hand, because this has gone far enough. Predictably, Potter’s eyes flash, but Draco ignores it. “No, let me stop you here. You are laboring under a misapprehension. I wasn’t forced into anything.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I wasn’t forced into _this_ ,” Draco says, hearing his voice go sharp and cold. He isn’t discussing the past, not with— He isn’t discussing the past, period.

“No?” Potter raises his eyebrows again, and this time he looks sarcastic and irritated. “You’re honestly telling me you’d marry me. Malfoy, come on.”

“My mother believes you’d make a good match for me,” Draco says stiffly, keeping his own countenance serious. “Not in terms of social connection, or family advantage, but that you would be an excellent husband for me.”

Potter stares at him, the irritation fading into a kind of baffled seriousness of his own. “And you believe her?”

“I do.” In any other moment, Draco would obfuscate, but if he’s going to fulfill his promise to Mother, if he’s going to give Potter every serious consideration, then Draco knows Potter deserves the truth any other potential partner deserves. “I have faith in my mother’s judgment. She has my best interests at heart. She always has.”

Surprisingly, Potter flinches, runs a hand through his messy hair, and then shoves straight up and begins to pace.

Draco waits, slouching against the wall as he watches.

Sometimes, the pacing slows, sometimes it stops, as Potter thinks something over, then starts up again. All turns are swift, graceful, short.

Never does he turn his back on Draco.

Or, for that matter, the door.

Finally, Potter runs his hands through his hair, holding it back from his face, his scar visible at last, looking at Draco directly. “You have questions first, right? That’s why you wanted to talk. You think she might be right, but you want to be sure.”

“I do,” Draco says. “Mother said she spoke to you about what I’m looking for in a marriage partner. That she met with you privately, late last week, to speak about it.”

“She did.” Potter looks like he wants to stick his hands in his pockets, but the robes are so badly cut, he can’t. “Kind of an interesting list.”

“Do you see yourself in that list?” Draco asks quietly.

“No,” Potter says shortly and looks away.

Oh, now isn’t this interesting.

That vaunted, splendid arrogance, it’s gone. Potter is sincere. He truly believes he doesn’t possess the qualities on Draco’s list. Not the qualities Draco gave Father years ago, not the ones Mother added, not the one Draco’s learned he wants most of all. It’s clear Potter thinks he doesn’t match Draco’s list of requirements at all.

Draco straightens from his slouch, pushes away from the wall, slowly strolls over, letting some of his masks slip, letting himself be, and Potter looks back, tension rising, body straightening, but he doesn’t retreat, not a single inch, not even when Draco comes right into his personal space, not even when Draco’s silk robes brush Potter’s own.

“Harry,” Draco says softly, “we need to talk about this.”

“Talk away.” There’s a little muscle jumping in his jaw.

Potter expects Draco to use the list to make fun of him. Or tell him how he fails to meet it. Oh yes, this is interesting. But not, perhaps, the way Potter expects.

“Who we are at thirteen, who we think other people are, these aren’t strong guidelines for who we should choose as a marriage partner.” Draco stays close, just touching, and still, Potter doesn’t retreat. It’s…rather attractive. “I’ve always wanted an arranged marriage. My Mother is a good judge of character, Potter, and she thinks you meet my entire list.”

“She’s wrong.” Potter looks away. “She—no offense, Malfoy, but I believe she’s wrong.”

“I can see that.” Draco inhales deeply, enjoying the faint aftershave, the hint of soap, the hint of London air. “Do you enjoy men?”

The jolt of surprise is delicious, heady, and oh yes, Mother may have a point, which is embarrassing, but at this moment, Draco doesn’t care, because Potter is looking at him, startled and narrow-eyed, and still not retreating, no matter how much it costs him, and it does, oh, it does, it costs him, and that just makes it sweeter.

“You want to know if I’ve fucked men,” he says flatly.

“Oh no,” Draco says, whispering it now, seductive, “I doubt you’ve really fucked anyone, Harry.”

That gets him a beautiful blush and a look of lovely and satisfying fury.

“I suppose someone told you,” and it’s bitter, oh yes.

“It’s a criterion for the ritual,” Draco says, and that’s interesting, isn’t it, the way the flashing fire fades, like that’s… “But I insisted on it, for myself, when Father drew up my preliminary list two years ago.”

Just like that, the fire is back.

“You actually asked for a virgin. You made a fucking shopping list for marriage? What is _wrong_ with you, Malfoy?”

“It’s merely part of the process,” Draco says, all blandly informative, “and being chaste before marriage is a fine quality valued by many more of our kind than myself, I assure you. But that’s not really an answer to my question, now is it, Harry.”

The blush is back, even lovelier, and it takes a long controlled moment before he says, “I’m willing to marry a man.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Draco says, almost playful, and this could be very enjoyable, really it could.

“I know what you asked.” Surprisingly sharp. “Do you enjoy men? Is that what you like, Malfoy? You like men?”

“Sometimes.” Draco knows Muggles are such barbarians, really, and it’s a shame they passed their backwards values to such a delightful creature. “Like most wizards of my type, I don’t have a preference that way.”

“You don’t?” Potter is surprised. “But you dated Pansy, at school.”

“Certainly I did, Harry, but she wasn’t my only lover.”

“Oh.”

“My preferences are different.” Draco inhales deeply, suddenly wishing it was the fourth meeting, not the first. “Sexually, I enjoy leading, and I prefer partners who are passionate, powerful—”

“Powerful,” it comes out a sneer, “I should have known.”

“Magically powerful, Harry,” Draco says, ignoring the sneer, because it’s clear no one has told this boy anything, “and like most wizards, I enjoy some kinds of magic more than others. The Malfoys run to water magic, and I am more so than most.”

“You—” Potter frowns. “Wait, is that why you’re so cold and chilly, all the time? Your magic is watery?”

“My magic is not _watery_. Good grief. My magic has a natural affinity to water magics, to the moon, to certain kinds of spells. If you’re asking why we all have such pale hair and light eyes, as though we were seen underwater, the answer is yes.”

“Is that why you like potions so much?”

Draco’d always known Potter wasn’t as much an idiot as he pretended to be to please Granger. “Yes.” Best to keep it simple.

“Huh.” Potter frowns again. “So, am I what, fire?”

Draco laughs softly. “Oh no. You’re not fire. Nothing so common.”

“But isn’t Gryffindor the fire house?”

“Yes, it certainly is.” The hot headed idiots. “But you’re not fire, no.”

“I don’t get it. I thought fire was what killed dark magic. If I’ve got any affinity, it’s got to be fire.”

“Dark magic isn’t destroyed by fire,” Draco says, then stops. Gathers himself. “Not the way you mean.”

“Then—”

“Light, Harry.” Draco can feel it now, as Potter’s magic swirls about them, and it’s like being outside, it’s so present suddenly, like a morning in early spring. “Dark magic is destroyed by light, and the element of light is air. Nothing can kill the Dark Arts as well as sunlight, the clean of the sky. Very few of us have such an affinity.”

“Oh. Is that what my father was?”

He sounds so hopeful Draco hesitates. He knows this is a very touchy subject, but better he hear it from a kinder source than some. “No. The Potters have been sorted into Gryffindor for generations. They’re fire. I believe, if it came from anywhere, it must have come from your mother.”

“How do you know?”

Because she was a sacrifice, Draco thinks. Because she begged for her son’s life. Because she begged to die.

“You have her eyes,” Draco says quietly, “the way she saw the world, her kindness, the way she looked on people.”

“People say that, that I have her eyes, but they mean my eyes are green, they have her shape.”

“That’s not what _I_ mean.” Draco eases back, just a little, reducing the pressure, and he can feel Potter’s breathing relax, deepen. “Like most wizards, I find this kind of magic…quite attractive.”

Potter actually laughs. “Are you saying my magic is hot?”

Why prevaricate?

“Yes.” Draco shrugs. “Didn’t you find Cho Chang attractive?”

“Wait—”

“She was the Ravenclaw seeker,” Draco says, amused. “Ravenclaws value air magic, it’s their sign, and she was good in the air.”

“Not as good as me,” Potter says slowly, but it’s not bragging, it’s honest and thoughtful, which is good, since Draco loathes false modesty. Such a lamentable waste of time.

“Not as good as you, no.” Draco meets his eyes. “You fly like it’s natural as breathing. Also quite attractive, if you’re wondering. Didn’t you ever wonder why she was dating the Hogwarts school champion?”

“Cho is actually really nice,” Potter says, a bit defensively.

“Yes, yes, she’s a lovely girl, and nice family, too, the Changs. My point is, Potter, you seem to be under the impression you’re…I’m not sure what, actually.” Oh, yes, this is fun, no doubt about it. Why not just say it? “That I wouldn’t want to take you to bed and keep you there, every night, for years.”

“I was finding it kind of hard to picture, yeah,” Potter says, bemused. “So, my magic is hot. Huh.”

“Not just your magic,” Draco says impatiently, “the magic is part of it.”

“Yeah, OK, Malfoy.”

Like Draco is merely…humoring him.

Time to move on, Draco decides, because Potter can outstubborn potted plants, and if Draco keeps him here for two hours, it’s going to make their negotiating position difficult, and the committee will likely traumatize the poor boy with inappropriate questions that make him blush about what Draco got up to with him.

“Do you know, Harry, I find it interesting that you’ve spent twenty minutes dodging a simple question,” Draco says. “I’m good at conversation, but you have some skill yourself, I see. Now, I wonder, do you think you could tell me, just a yes or no, Do you enjoy men?”

“Do I—” Potter glares. “I wasn’t avoiding the question. I already told you. I don’t mind that you’re a man. It’s not a problem.”

“That’s an answer, but not to the question I asked.” Draco looks at him thoughtfully and wonders whether this is the Muggle-raised prejudice or…something else. He suspects the latter. “We need to be compatible in this area.”

“I’ll cooperate with what you like.” Potter tries to cross his arms over his chest, but they’re standing too close. “I promise, OK?”

“Still not an answer,” Draco says. “Let’s—”

“Yes, I like men, Malfoy. Happy? I don’t have any practical experience with men because I don’t have any practical experience with anyone.”

“You’ve dated—”

“Oh my GOD.” Potter stalks away and kicks a wall. “I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.”

It’s a rather extreme reaction.

Draco is glad for their years at school. Sometimes, Potter loses his temper and a bit of storming about always seem to cheer him up. Draco entertains himself by imagining all that lovely fury and tempest in bed. It’s quite a nice fantasy, really, and when Potter whirls about again, he stops dead.

“MALFOY!”

“What?” Draco asks innocently.

“You know what! You were! You!” Potter runs out of words, it seems, and gives the wall another hard kick. “Argh.”

“We are courting.”

“How is this my life.” Potter seems to lose steam and he stands there, looking tired again. Draco misses the fury. It makes him seem more alive. Vibrant. “Ginny is off limits.”

“I realize that you—”

“Ginny is _off limits_.” There’s steel, now.

“I apologize,” Draco says, and he adds a bow, to be sure. “I did not mean any slight against her. I only wanted to inquire into your previous attachments, in a general way.”

“Well, now you know.” He sighs. “So. What else?”

Topic closed, door shut, do not open.

“If we marry, I want this to be a real marriage.”

“It’s an arranged marriage,” Potter says, like he’s countering Draco’s argument, and to Potter, maybe he is.

“That doesn’t mean it can’t be a real marriage. Many pureblood families rely on arranged marriages, and, before you say it, they prefer them because they can become very strong, affectionate matches. Sometimes, we don’t see clearly. We let our beliefs blind us. Having family or a matchmaker choose can make for better decisions. If we marry, I want a partner, a companion, affection and closeness.”

“I’m not against affection and closeness.” It’s said so stiffly, Draco realizes it’s a touchy subject.

“Harry, I’d like to speak frankly, and I want you to listen to what I say, not what you think I’m going to say, just for a moment. Will you give me that?”

“And then I can get angry?”

“If you want, yes, then you can get angry.”

Potter nods sharply, just once, then glares, but it’s more fierce concentration than anger. Draco recognizes the look from the War trials.

“If circumstances were different,” Draco says carefully, gently eliding certain topics, “if you were raised pureblood, it would be very natural and normal to arrange a marriage for you with the Weasely family, where you already have strong ties of affection. You would bring much needed physical capital, social power, resources, and they would bring a broad string of loving relations. There would be nothing, and I mean this, nothing wrong with marrying specifically for such comfort and affection, and if you did not have a relationship with one of their children, the most appropriate would be chosen, and you’d develop one, over time, together, once the marriage vows had been spoken.”

Draco checks, but so far, no explosion. Good. “Marriage can be about many things, it can be different for each couple. Valuing a close, warm connection with the family of your spouse is normal, Harry, in our world. It is a very fine reason to choose a spouse. If you went to a reliable matchmaker, they would likely choose Ginny for you.”

There’s no need to lay out the other options—Potter wouldn’t appreciate hearing that Bill would have made a fine match, too.

Still no fury, so Draco goes on. “Our match cannot provide that familiar and familial affection, no matter how much we might wish it. The history between us and the cooler nature of my family precludes it.”

The silent staring concentration is getting a little…unnerving, so Draco moves on. “You will be losing the opportunity for that warm connection. We recognize this, and I wanted to speak privately with you about that loss. I hoped you could tell me which of your conditions were ones you especially wanted.”

Potter raises an eyebrow. “Who says they were my conditions?”

“Naturally, some of the conditions were chosen by the delegates or your solicitors.” They’re not very good solicitors, but they had at least asked for the usual. “I’m inquiring about conditions you requested.”

“You think I requested some conditions.” Then he laughs.

It’s….disconcerting.

“Of course I think you requested some conditions. It’s your marriage.”

But Potter’s already shaking his head. “I didn’t. Well. One. You can’t have my house elf.”

“But—”

“That one’s not up for debate,” Potter says flatly. “You want to give me something, Malfoy, you could give me that.”

“Surely you have other conditions,” Draco says, not because he minds the house elf clause, but because— “You must have things you want.”

“No, Malfoy. I don’t have things I want. Not anymore.” He sighs. “But there is something you should know. About the marriage.”

Draco clutches the admission like a lifeline. Clearly Potter doesn’t understand how the negotiations work, is uncomfortable with requests. Also, his solicitors and negotiators are terrible. They’re getting slaughtered in the discussions, no matter how much Granger tries to help. “Of course, Harry. Please, speak freely.”

“If we go through with this, I won’t use my job for your father. I won’t throw cases. I won’t destroy evidence. I won’t delay searches. Nothing.” He looks suddenly exhausted, the shadows under his eyes dark as bruises, as he takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “I realize that’s a big part of my appeal, for your family, for this, so—you should know, in advance, that it’s not on the table. I won’t use my work for you.”

“I see,” Draco says, and he does see. “You think this is why we chose you.”

Potter just shrugs again, a silent yes. He puts his glasses back on. “So, did I answer your questions, Malfoy?”

“You did,” Draco says softly. Not the way he’d expected, but the questions, they’ve been answered. “Did you have any for me, Harry?”

“No.” He looks so tired.

“Harry—are you quite all right?”

“No, I’m good. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t know you could lie,” Draco says.

“Well, now you do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....and here we go! I should have the fourth chapter up soon.

They’re on a sofa in Potter’s ridiculous London town home.

Draco might not be entirely sure about the applicability of Mother’s advice, but it’s much easier to believe Potter’s a sheltered, traditional pureblood in this sitting room, that’s for certain. The walls are papered in watered blue silk, from before the first War, the furniture done in matching cool deep colors—deep cerulean and navy, viridian and emerald, with silver fittings.

During the War, there’d been rumors that the Black home was looted by an Order member, and Draco knows some of the family-crest-covered silver was stolen for certain. It’s clear that whatever was taken, the thief didn’t have time to steal more than the easily-portable goods from the commonly available rooms. The goblin-wrought mirror over the mantle is, Draco can grudgingly admit, nicer than the one in their own sitting room.

The house elf might be ancient, but he obviously knows his work. The drapes hang beautifully, the carpets are fresh and bright, the furniture gleams with the polish of centuries, and in general, this is a place Draco’s own Father could not find fault with.

Only the tapestry on the wall is a jarring note, and the state of it is…not a topic Draco can raise, not with their situation at the moment. Once they’re married, yes of course, but now? No.

Still, the shrouded dusty green keeps catching his eye, the magic of it pulling his attention at times, although that’s probably more because of why he’s here than what it’s like most of the time.

“It’s stuck to the wall,” Potter tells him shortly, when he catches Draco looking, and Draco is so mortified he sips his tea and murmurs some completely inappropriate response about the weather, he’s so rattled. Good lord, what his Mother would say if she’d found out Draco was so rude as to be caught staring, he has no idea, but it would be the last time she called him her perfect gentleman, he knows that much.

Potter is gracious enough to let it drop, ignoring the insult as though it hadn’t even happened.

Draco picks up the lead, pretends things are fine, takes them through the conversational topics they should cover today.

It goes about as well as he expected.

Potter is _impossible_.

“But I don’t care about the colors for the wedding,” Potter keeps saying, and Draco has said, “But you do, Potter, you do. Now, what about—” more than half a dozen times.

“But I don’t,” Potter says, flopping back against the far side of the sofa as though he’s furious and upset and wants to be anywhere else in the world, even if it means the past, fighting vicious Dark Lords. “Malfoy, I _don’t_.”

Draco eyes him coldly. “Marriage is a coming together of more than just two people, Potter. Get it together and stop being so selfish. Help me pick the colors.”

“But I don’t care.” He flings an arm over his face as though he really is a pureblood maiden. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“So, you’ll be fine with whatever I pick,” Draco says.

“So long as it won’t set off a third war because it’s purposefully insulting, yes, I’ll be perfectly fine with whatever you pick.”

“If I said I wanted Malfoy blue and Black silver,” Draco says, edging his way out on the precipice of this insanity, more to prove a point than anything else, because of course Potter cares, and of course Draco’s not getting his way about the wedding colors, “What would you say?”

“Is Malfoy blue that kind of blue-green one? Looks a bit like blue, but underwater, like through lake light?”

Draco stares at him. It’s an oddly apt description. “Have you been actually paying attention in the meetings?”

“Maybe.” It comes out distinctly sulky.

“Yes,” Draco says. “That is the Malfoy blue.”

“Black silver is just regular silver, right? It’s not secretly pink or whatever like the Prewett red?”

“It’s—” Draco glances at the tapestry, away again. “It’s reasonable to call it a regular silver, yes.”

“Then those sound _fine_ , Malfoy. We’ll have Malfoy blue and Black silver. Now, can we move on before I die over here?”

“You’re sure?”

There’s a certain amount of muttering, and Potter sits up again, shoving at his glasses. “Malfoy, I keep telling you, I don’t care. If blue and gray make you happy, we’ll have blue and gray.”

“It’s technically—” Draco backpeddles before he accidentally infuriates Potter into rebellious color schemes out of spite. “That’s very generous of you. The bride and the bride’s family have final say on colors. I appreciate you indulging my choice.”

“I’m not indulging anything,” Potter says, but he doesn’t meet Draco’s eyes. “Can we please move on?”

Draco does his best to be gracious. It really was generous, and Mother will be so pleased. Father, of course, wouldn’t believe a word of this story if Draco swallowed the Professor’s entire backlog of veritaserum. Maybe he’ll just gloss over how they got to the final selection when he updates his parents. The next topic is the flowers, and this time, Draco decides he’ll try his Mother’s advice. It can’t hurt, and Potter deserves a chance.

“Do you know anything about traditional wedding flowers?” Draco asks, trying to put some warmth and some kindness into the question, the way he would if he were talking to a Greengrass.

“No,” Potter says. “I don’t.”

Draco nearly lets himself bristle, then considers. The answer is clearly honest, but it was delivered rather aggressively.

_And why was Potter being aggressive,_ a little voice whispers. It sounds like his Mother. _Think of his position in the negotiations_ , she whispers, _trying to do what’s right, not knowing the rules of the game_.

Draco tries to picture one of the Greengrass girls, but it doesn’t work.

Potter is just too….present, here in his sitting room, with its fine old furniture and its echoing magics, lingering traces of Black family madness and grief shimmering under the clean carpets and pretty silks. His hair is longer than Draco’s ever seen it, and it suits him. The strands are dark and waving, curling to his shoulders and down one pale cheek. With those fine features and those eyes, he looks handsome, young and powerful.

“You’re staring,” Potter says, frowning.

Yes, Draco supposes he has been. “I was thinking things through.”

Potter looks away, and Draco gets a chance to study the profile, all straight nose and high cheekbones, good chin, smooth forehead, and it’s every bit as nice as the scene from the front. He doesn’t like Potter, but he’s willing to admit his mother is right. Potter looks like a pureblood of the oldest style. Potter isn’t just handsome, he’s beautiful.

“Would you like me to just handle the flowers?” Draco makes the offer, knowing it will be turned down, but oddly unable not to make the gesture. He doesn’t even know why he thought of it, it goes against every etiquette book.

Potter has every right to take insult, but instead, Potter’s eyes light up and his face relaxes into a smile, a real one. “Would you?”

“I would,” Draco says, keeping his own features smooth and even, “if you’d like.”

“Wow, Malfoy, that would be great.” Potter’s real smile is quite warm, and it changes his features, makes him much less distant. “I guess it’s a lot of trouble? Do you need….money or whatever?”

“Potter, I’m sure you’re saying this from ignorance, but that was just a deadly insult.”

“It was?” he looks bewildered. “Are you joking? What did I do?”

“You implied the Malfoy estates could not afford to purchase the wedding flowers.”

Potter blinks like that never occurred to him, and maybe it hadn’t. “Jesus, Malfoy, I didn’t mean it like that. I know the Malfoys are rich. It’s just—I’ve got loads of money, and I don’t mind paying for my share. I thought the flowers were supposed to be from my side.”

Why is Mother right about everything?

“In a traditional marriage, it’s an involved process to select the wedding flowers. You’d have used manuals and the advice of the female relatives of your family tree, with the dowager presiding, marrying tradition with your own tastes, until you’d made intricate, detailed plans of every arrangement, bouquet, decoration, and favor. You would then hint these choices to me, never stating your desires outright. You’d leave books open to appropriate pages, with sketched diagrams of your own, with lists and figures of your ideal choices, and so on and so forth. Ultimately finding a way to hint to me what all your floral dreams are, in detail,” Draco says, “And then I would fulfill your every whim.”

Potter actually laughs. “And you thought, ‘He hates floral planning, I’ll fulfill his whim to never do any’?”

“Would you like that?” Draco asks, and it comes out much more seductive than he’d intended, his voice low and soft, coaxing. “If I took care of the flowers, for you?”

Potter’s gaze drops to Draco’s mouth for one long shocked moment, and Draco thinks, Ohhhhh, well, isn’t this interesting?

It takes a long second before Potter glances away, with what looks like real effort, and says, a lot more breathless than he had been, “That would be great, Malfoy.”

And Draco cannot resist, he simply cannot, and why would he?

They are, after all, courting.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, still low, still seductive, drawing the words out, enjoying the taste of them, letting that show, and adds, “Harry.”

*

Draco manages to cover the seating arrangements, the dates for the reception, and the engagement party. Potter is surprisingly firm about the reception dates, but otherwise lets Draco have his way in nearly everything.

Draco tests his new little theory every so often, asks, “What would you like?” in a gentle way, a coaxing way, and it never stops making Harry shiver, as though somehow, despite everything, no one’s ever bothered to ask before.

Draco’s far too good a negotiator not to realize Potter’s response wouldn’t be so strong if it wasn’t so rare, and it makes him wonder.

It makes him wonder.

*

“You want to _what_?!”

“I want to kiss you, when your magic is revealed, and if that goes well,” Draco says, “I want to kiss you while your magic is active.”

“Like, when I’m doing a spell?”

“Exactly like when you’re doing a spell,” and Draco isn’t pretending, even to himself any longer, that he’s putting as much coaxing seduction in his voice as he can.

“But when I’m doing a spell?” Potter eyes are enormous, like Draco’s genuinely shocked him. “But that’s—”

“Intimate?” Draco suggests, sliding closer. “Have you tried it?”

“No!”

“Harry,” Draco says, smoothly cutting the last two inches of distance, “I know you’re nervous—”

“I am not _nervous_ , Malfoy.” The defensiveness is fascinating, very Gryffindor.

“Then what’s the problem?” Draco should feel bad, he should, he knows this. Potter’s supposed to become his partner, and Draco shouldn’t use the most base manipulation tactics on him, especially for this.

“There is no problem.” He shoves his glasses up his nose, pushes his hair away, glares back. “You want to kiss me, while I’m doing magic. Great. Go for it.”

Draco smiles to himself. So easy. “Revealed first.”

“Whatever that means.”

“It means I’ll be able to see your magic,” Draco says, easing up on the seduction, going for neutral, because it is intimate. He’s asking to see Potter’s magic and then touch him. It’s more intimate than seeing him undress, much more intimate. “Do you want me to go first?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Malfoy. Just do the spell or whatever.” He glares some more. “Get it over with.”

Draco remembers how he and Pansy had done this, how her eyes were glistening with tears, how they’d both felt, how…intense it had all been. “Seeing your magic isn’t something I want to rush. I don’t want to get it over with.”

Potter frowns. “I thought you said this was some step in the process.”

“It is.” Draco takes out his wand. “But I’m getting to see your magic for the first time. I want to enjoy it.”

“It’s—it feels good?”

“I’m going to enjoy it,” Draco says, and he’s back to coaxing. “You may feel exposed. That’s natural. Will you let me cast the spell?”

“I get a say?”

“I won’t cast it if you don’t consent.” Draco isn’t sure why he says it, but he means it. “I want you to say yes, but if you don’t want to show me your magic yet, we’ll wait.”

“I thought you said we needed to do this.”

“We do.” It’s fascinating, Draco thinks, how much his Mother was right, and about what. “But there’s no rush. We can spend time together, you can get used to me, and then we’ll do it. When we’re ready.”

Potter’s eyebrows shoot up. “You make me sound like a skittish virgin.”

“This is your magic, Harry, it’s a lot more significant that just sex.”

“Oh.” Potter adjusts his glasses again, but he looks thoughtful, not defiant or worried, and Draco takes it as a good sign. “Yeah, OK, you can cast it.”

“Are you sure?” Draco asks softly, and he’s not sure why he does, but he wants to be certain.

“Yeah, Malfoy. I’m sure.”

Potter turns his head and closes his eyes, like he’s afraid it’s going to hurt.

Draco casts the spell. It’s not a difficult one, not really. He’d practiced with Mother, who taught him in the first place, and he’s done it with other lovers, because Slytherins are like that, they want the forbidden, they like the most intense sex, they don’t always follow their own rules. It’s a spell for intimates, and that means family, too, not just those one beds, but Draco’s never quite sure what the spell will reveal, each time, about the one he casts it on.

Everyone hides parts of themselves, everyone makes masks, and the whole point of the spell, what it does, is to slide those away, to allow the instinctive glamors to drop, to show the hum of the magic shining through the skin, to reveal what it looks like and how it tastes and how it feels, its qualities and its strengths.

He remembers seeing his Mother’s magic for the first time, how much more powerful it had been than what he’d expected, how she’d always hidden herself behind Father’s strong shoulder. Draco remembers that first time with a lover, with Pansy, and how pretty he’d found her, how erotic it had been to realize she wasn’t at all what he’d expected and she’d let him see anyway.

Potter’s magic is nothing like Draco expected.

It reminds him, inexplicably, of his own seventeenth birthday, when he’d gone for a long walk at the Manor, while it was still dark, and the sun had come up, red gold and pink, and lit the lake until it was shining and gold, a shimmer hard to look at, beguiling and dangerous. That’s what Potter’s magic looks like—that shimmer, lovely as dawn sunlight.

“Oh,” Draco says, and can’t say a word.

He wants to touch, he wants to run his hands all over that glorious spill of power, because it’s so present, it’s so there, it’s….there’s so much of it.

It’s more power than Draco’s seen in his life, and his mouth is dry.

He wants to have this, to just take him, and he’s so aroused it’s like being fifteen again, with no self control at all, and then Potter says nervously, “Do you not like it?”

His eyes are still closed, his body still braced, and Draco uncurls his clenched fists. “Oh, I like it.” He has to take a few breaths. “You hide it. You hide it all the time. I had no idea.”

Potter doesn’t say anything to that, but he gnaws his lip. “Do I?”

“You do.” Draco trails his hand through the air, just above the skin, and he can feel it. “May I kiss you?”

“Um, OK, if you want.”

Despite that ringing endorsement, Draco is gentle. He slides one hand through that hair, and it’s so soft, not wiry at all, finer than silk, like the softest mink pelt. Potter lets him, lets him tilt his head back, lets Draco cup his face with his other hand, stroke his cheek with one thumb while his magic dances under it.

“I want to you kiss you,” Draco says, and he’s so close his lips brush Harry’s. “I want to kiss you, and I want you to let yourself be kissed. You can kiss me, later, if you want, but right now, I want to kiss you. Do you understand the difference?”

Draco waits, and then Potter says, a little hoarse, “Yes.”

“Good.”

Draco’s always enjoyed kissing, the kissing and the being kissed, and he’s good at it. He’s always loved making his partners thoroughly aroused and then complete sated, and it’s just a teeny bit possible he might want to prove something here, because he wants Potter to be fucking wrecked by this kiss. Draco wants him to moan, he wants him to shiver, he wants him to come completely undone.

It doesn’t really go as planned.

Draco’s gentle at first, brushing his lips back and forth, coaxing Potter to open for him, and when he does, he doesn’t try to conquer right away, he goes slow, a few open mouthed kisses and then a little nip to the corner of his mouth before sliding his tongue in to taste, moaning a little himself, and then…sure enough, as soon as Potter relaxes, he tries to lead.

It’s not that Draco minds being kissed, because he usually quite likes it.

It’s that they’re trying to determine whether they can do this stupid ritual, that’s all, and for that, Potter is going to have to give it up.

“Harry,” Draco says sternly, pulling back, amused when he’s followed, when he has to put his hand on his chest to hold him off. “This isn’t working.”

Potter blinks at him, mouth reddened, hair a mess, eyes aroused.

It’s quite a good look on him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, puzzled.

“You’re not being kissed,” Draco says bluntly. “You keep kissing me, not the other way around. I’m not complaining, Potter, don’t look like that. You’re very good at it. But the purpose of today’s exercise if for me to kiss you and so far, we haven’t.”

“Oh. We haven’t?”

“No.”

Potter blinks a bit some more, like maybe his mind isn’t working as fast usual. “Um. Sorry?”

“I don’t want you to be sorry, I want you to—” Draco has a rather scandalous idea. “I’d like to try something else.”

“OK,” Potter says easily, and Draco wants to say, “You do know I am your enemy, do not just say, ‘OK’ in that amiable way before you’ve even heard what I’m proposing, you lunatic idiot.’ “If you want.”

“I want.” Draco wonders how to put his request.

“You can spit it out, Malfoy. I won’t scream and run away. It’s just kissing.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You thought more than kissing?” Potter doesn’t look all that opposed, which is….rather flattering.

“I’m considering it,” Draco says stiffly, “But I’m not sure whether you’d enjoy it.”

“Try me.”

It’s a dare and a bold one, and Draco laughs. Oh, they could have so much fun in bed. And, yes, OK, here is as good as a place as any to start. “I could have so much fun in bed with you.”

That works quite a bit better than Draco expected, and Potter’s eyes widen and the sleepy haze is gone. “You could?”

“Oh yes,” Draco says, letting it show on his face. “Potter, do you have any idea the kind of noises you make?”

Potter actually flinches. “Sorry, I, I got a bit carried away. I’ll try to keep it down.”

Oh my God, is the Weasely chit that useless or that clueless?

“I don’t want you to keep it down,” Draco says bluntly, because it’s pretty clear he needs to be. Has no one ever told this boy a single thing?

“You don’t?”

“No. I don’t.” Draco cups that lovely, startled face in his hands and says, “I should have added, ‘I want to hear what you sound like when you’re being fucked,’” just to see if he’s on the right track.

“ _Malfoy_!”

Oh good, he is.

Draco covers his still protesting mouth with his own, and instead of being gentle, which hadn’t worked, he makes his intentions perfectly clear. He bites. He moans. He shoves his tongue in Potter’s mouth like he wants to shove his cock inside him until he begs.

This time when he pulls back, Potter is gasping, like he desperately needs air, and Draco bites the edge of his jaw and whispers, “Such lovely noises,” and Potter makes this soft little shocked noise of lust.

It’s sexy, yes, but it’s also an _answer_ , and the answer fills Draco with warmth and pleasure, delicious and sweet, because this? This is going to work, and Draco knows exactly how to get Potter to give it up.

He bites a line up that smooth jaw to just below the ear. “Have you ever been taken under?”

“Under what?” Potter sounds so out of breath, turned on, and it’s heady.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Draco says, and he shocks himself at how possessive he suddenly feels. No one else has tried, or maybe no one else has been allowed, and Draco wants it to be him. He wants it with a sudden fierce intensity.

“Malfoy, I don’t…ah…know what you’re talking about.”

“I want to show you,” Draco whispers. “I think you’ll like it. Let me.”

Potter groans, and it’s clear he is still lost. “We’re not supposed to go far, Malfoy.”

“You’re not supposed to let anyone fuck you,” Draco whispers, just because he can. “You’re supposed to wait. But I think you’d let me, if I wanted to. I want to, Harry, you’re so good, and you respond so well, and I want to feel it, I want to take you, I want to kiss you when I’m inside you and feel you moan. You’d be so good, I know it. Wouldn’t you?”

Potter actually pulls away, and Draco realizes, he’s tempted.

He’s actually tempted.

“No,” Potter says, but it’s about the least convincing no Draco has ever heard.

“You would be,” Draco insists, and it’s like he can’t help himself now. “You would be so good, Harry.”

And then, all of a sudden, Draco realizes Potter is trembling.

It’s like being splashed with a bucket of ice water.

Had he actually planned to do that?

Yes, Draco realizes, horrified at himself. Fuck planned, he’d almost gone through with it.

He opens his mouth to just lash out, to be take out his frustration on the nearest target, and he just…can’t.

But he can’t say anything either, he can’t say, ‘OK, I took that a bit too far, whoops,’ and even if he did, the chances Potter would even understand him are about nil.

So instead, he slides his hands through that stupid, stupid hair, and he kisses that stupid mouth, rough, rougher than he’s been in years, rough enough to hurt, and when he pulls away, he says, “Harry, don’t argue with me, you’d be so good, but you’re right, we can’t.” Then Draco jerks away, leaving Potter slumped on the sofa, dazed and panting, while Draco knocks over one of the 14th century tables with one sharp kick.

It doesn’t help.

“Feel better?”

“No.” Draco glares at him over his shoulder.

At least now, Potter looks suitably wrecked. It’s….not helpful. “Kick another one. I’ve got lots.”

Draco laughs. “You wouldn’t if I kept going.”

“I could buy more.” The green eyes look sleepy, almost…relaxed. “Have you seen my vault?”

“I was told it was vaults, plural. Didn’t you inherit the Black estates? Their vault is supposed to be down in the deepest section.” The ones full to the brim with gold and guarded by dragons.

The green eyes shutter once, and when they open again, there’s nothing relaxed about them. “I did. Yes.” He sits up, and Draco knows the moment is lost.

“Malfoy, what the hell did you do to me?”

“I kissed you,” Draco says, a bit primly.

“I know, but…” His robes are a complete tangle, the outer robe tugged off one shoulder. “There are buttons gone.”

“That’s hardly my fault.”

“It damn well is. I didn’t rip off my own buttons!”

Draco laughs again. “Not my fault you’re so good at being kissed.”

And just like that, he sees it, that flicker, that surge, the lust and confusion, followed by wariness. “I thought you said I was lousy at being kissed.”

“Only at first.” Draco strolls over to pick up some papers. He keeps his back turned, oddly chivalrous. “You said you never had been, before.”

“I’ve been kissed.”

“Harry.” Draco sorts them into piles. “Don’t get defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive! I _have_ been. I just—”

Draco turns around, surprised at the tone.

“It’s stupid. Never mind.” He’s staring at his hands, and yes, a number of those robe buttons are long gone.

“Tell me.” Draco shoves away his other thoughts, what they’re supposed to be doing today, all of it. They’re not married yet, but they will be. “I won’t laugh or call you stupid. I promise.”

Suddenly, Potter slumps forward, his head in his hand, like he can’t sit upright any longer.

Maybe he can’t.

“Is this about Ginevra?”

“Before I left,” Potter says, and it’s so low, Draco can barely hear him. “It was my birthday. My seventeenth. I never got birthday presents before. The Dursleys, they gave them to my cousin, always, but I never… I’d never had one.”

“Before coming to Hogwarts?” Draco asks, and it’s obviously what Potter is saying, and in that tone, he’s not lying, but…

Potter only nods, like yes, that’s correct, as though it’s not admitting a whole bunch of things Draco’s going to have to go home and think about, ideally while quite quite drunk. “So, they’re kind of precious to me. Birthday presents.”

“And the seventeenth was important. You became a man.” Every wizard cares about that one.

“I guess.” Except Potter doesn’t actually seem to care about it, because he’s going somewhere else. “I was getting ready to leave. To find the horcruxes. It just mattered because the trace vanishes that day.”

“It was still your birthday, Potter.” Draco doesn’t know why he says it, other than it just seems sad, that the savior of the wizarding world looked forward to his birthday because it meant he could go fight death.

“It was. She found me. We’d broken up. Well, I broke up with her, but she found me. And she kissed me.”

Draco shuts his eyes. He can imagine it, all too clearly. “I see.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“We’re getting married, Potter. I’m going to be very upset if there’s someone else who should hear this story besides me.”

The laugh is soft, but it’s not happy. “Yeah. Well. I just….”

“Didn’t want to hurt my feelings?” It’s so obviously the case. “It’s an arranged marriage, Potter. I’m all right. Finish your story.”

That seems to be the right thing to say, and if Draco is lying about his own feelings, well, Potter doesn’t need to know.

“I carried that kiss.” Potter runs a hand through his hair, which has been going increasing sad and spiky instead of waving and happy. “Inside me. During the war.”

“I see.” Draco says it softly, and he does see.

“It helped.” Potter shoves back, but he doesn’t look up. “But it— Never mind. I shouldn’t have told you this story.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Potter looks up, eyes wide and startled.

“Harry,” Draco says, and it’s suddenly easy. He doesn’t need to picture anyone but the man sitting here to say what he needs to say. “Magic in England is dying. I know you left her to save her life. You broke up with Ginevra to save her.”

Potter nods slowly. “I did.”

“And now, you’re the sacrifice so she doesn’t have to be. You loved her. You obviously still love her. But Harry, you left her.”

“I—”

“To save her, Harry, but you _left_ her.” Draco looks at him. “You won’t leave me. Not that way. We’ll be sacrificed to the ritual together, and you’ll let it happen. That’s what marriage is, to go through it together.”

“Oh.”

Draco leans in and kisses him on the mouth. “So I’m glad you told me.”

Harry relaxes into the kiss, allows it, makes a few of those soft noises clearly without realizing it.

It’s delightful, but Draco pulls back, speaks against Harry’s mouth, but watches his eyes, “But don’t let her kiss you again. You’re mine now. I’m possessive, and I don’t like it.”

The eyes widen in surprise, narrow, go thoughtful, but he doesn’t argue.

Draco steps away, changes the subject, and takes them through the remainder of their list.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, here is chapter 4! I hope everyone enjoys it! We'll get more Harry POV soon. In the meantime, I owe so many emails to so many kind people who have reached out. I <3 you all and I will answer soon. I've been under the weather, but I'm feeling much better. Look for a reply soon! <3 ~venus

The next day, Draco realizes why Harry apologized about being windswept and tired for their appointment, why the robes had been mismatched, why the paperwork hadn’t been done. And his, “Draco, I’m sorry, I had trouble getting away,” was not a line, but the truth. It’s a miracle he showed at all.

“Explosion of rogue magic at yesterday morning’s Bath Quidditch game!” roars the headline of the Prophet. “12 dead, dozens injured!”

There’s a photo of Aurors, trying to drag people from the wreckage, and Draco recognizes one on the left without needing the caption. Harry’s face is smeared with blood, there’s cement dust in his hair, and his glasses are broken, but he’s not paying attention, just tenderly lifting the elderly wizard in his arms, whose injuries are…severe.

Looking at it, Draco feels sick.

The explosion itself had happened late morning, but with the debris, with people trapped, it had taken hours to evacuate, to reach survivors, to stabilize the magic fields as best they could.

Draco closes the newspaper and skips breakfast. The only thing he can do about this is to get the marriage details completed as quickly as possible.

So he works on them, and when he gets to the Ministry early, he can hear Potter shouting all the way down the hall.

The furor is coming from the Minister’s office, his front office, actually.

“I DON’T CARE IF HE’S GOT AN APPOINTMENT!”

Murmur murmur.

“THERE IS EVERY NEED TO SHOUT!”

More murmurings, but the tone is smug, and Draco picks up the hem of his robes and runs.

There’s an almighty bang, rather like the most powerful wizard in the world just got fed up with being told to make an appointment later next week, and instead blew through two inches of solid oak door like it was a silk curtain in a hurricane.

“ **KINGSLEY**!”

Three separate secretaries and four junior ministers try to block Draco’s path, until one of them says, “Oh it’s Malfoy!” and then he can get through.

Potter’s shouting has not abated, and it’s mixed with the deep slow burr of the Minister’s tones.

Draco hasn’t reached the door yet, but he can hear it all perfectly.

“Harry, calm down. We need to show the public that we’re handling the situation—”

“HANDLING THE SITUATION? HANDLING THE SITUATION?! WE ARE _NOT_ HANDLING IT. PEOPLE ARE _DYING_.”

“I know that, Harry.”

It’s the right thing to say, because Harry’s volume lowers a little.

“It’s wrong,” Potter says.

“I know you feel that way, Harry. I understand, believe me, but this isn’t—”

“Stan Shunpike all over again?” Harry laughs and it’s so bitter Draco stops in his tracks.

“I’d like to think a photo in a newspaper, even an ugly one, is different from imprisoning an innocent man.”

“Oh, I know you’d like to think that. You do think that.” There’s one perfect, Slytherin-like pause. “I don’t.”

“Harry—”

“Oh, fuck you, Kingsley. Just fuck you.”

Draco hurries forward again. The man really has no control at all when he’s lost his temper, and he clearly has.

“Harry, I know you’re upset, it’s—”

“Upset? _Upset_?!” There’s a loud sound, rather like Harry’s just kicked over a chair. Draco hopes the Minister wasn’t sitting in it at the time. “Did you know, Kingsley, that his family hadn’t been notified? You were going to do it, but oopsie, you had an evening meeting!”

“I… No, I hadn’t realized.”

“You didn’t care to realize,” Harry says coldly.

“It’s….unfortunate that happened.”

“UNFORTUNATE?!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Ohhhhh, I don’t know. How about I’m sorry? Or here’s another one.”

Draco dodges his way in to see Harry lean right over the table, nose to nose with the Minister, who, to his credit, isn’t leaning backward. Draco would, if Harry was glaring at him, sparks of stray magic flying around him like a small lightshow in his fury.

“Maybe,” Harry says, and it’s a whisper, “ _I must not tell lies_?”

The Minister winces and shuts his eyes. “I—”

“Lied,” Harry says, nodding.

“Harry, I—”

“Lied. Don’t worry about the photo, Harry. Go to your meeting, Harry. It’s fine, Harry. We’ve got things under control here, Harry.” Harry steps backward and his look is so full of contempt, such impotent fury, Draco has to look away. “Don’t even try to tell me the leak wasn’t intentional. Just _don’t_.”

“Harry—”

“It’s a funny thing about people who lie. When they do it often enough, people start to expect it. Is that what I should do? Expect you to lie some more, when it’s convenient, when it’s not convenient, because it’s Tuesday?”

“Don’t make this into something it isn’t. People are starting to panic. They’re worried it’s worse than the War. They need some reassurance.”

“Somehow I’m supposed to believe that reassurance translates into an old man dying on the front page of the Prophet, again and again, am I?”

“Have you looked at the photo?”

“Have I… You’re actually going to argue with me about this.” Harry shakes his head, and his laugh is bitter all over again. Bitter and tired.

“I’m not saying it’s not graphic, it is, but it also shows people who are risking their lives to help. It’s an important message that—”

“That I’d be more likely to believe if you hadn’t let it be the way his granddaughter will now remember him, since it showed up on her doorstep, unannounced.”

“I regret that. It was—”

“An oversight. A mistake. A failure to anticipate the consequences, which while understandable, was regrettable?” Draco can almost hear the quote marks, and _Ouch_.

“Go home, Harry. Take the rest of the day and go home.” Kingsley rubs at his eyes.

Harry shakes his head, but he doesn’t look calmed or soothed, he looks, Draco realizes, resigned. “I won’t tolerate this forever. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“There are lines, and I won’t cross them.” _Don’t you cross them, either._

“I’m not Scrimgeour, Harry.”

“And I’m not Dumbledore.”

Kingsley looks up at that, surprised, and Harry is looking back at him, direct and unsmiling, and the magic in the world just swirls and eddies and swirls around him, and Draco is certain that the Minister has no idea just how angry Harry is, because he’s not hiding under the desk or fleeing or whimpering or pleading for mercy.

“Meaning what?” Kingsley says, wary.

“Meaning he was fond of second chances.” Harry nods once. “I’m not. Something to bear in mind.” He turns on his heel and walks from the room. “Draco,” he says, as he reaches him.

Draco turns to follow Potter out, because if anyone has ever needed to be talked down before, in the history of ever, it’s Potter at this moment, but the Minister for Magic says, “Mr Malfoy. Come in, please, and shut the door.”

“I think I should go after him,” Draco says, watching over his shoulder as Harry neatly sidesteps several junior ministers, rudely silent, still stalking that predator’s stalk, deadly and unhurried, because nothing and no one can harm him, and he’s not bothering to pretend it can, the way he usually does, that he’s mortal like the rest of them when he’s not.

“He’ll cool off.”

“He’ll—” Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Respectfully, Sir, I don’t think he will.”

“It’s been a long night. He’ll cool off.” The Minister runs a tired hand over his face. “Please, sit down. Tea?”

“No, Sir, thank you,” and does not add, ‘No, really, Sir, he isn’t going to cool off’ but he does risk adding, “I recognize that look. Maybe I should make sure he isn’t….planning something rash?”

“He was upset, but once he’s gone home, cooled off, had some sleep, he’ll be fine.” The Minister gets a cup of tea for himself and offers a second time. Holding up the pot. “Sure?”

“If it’s not any trouble, thank you, Sir.” It’s more polite to accept than refuse. The tea is excellent of course, strong and hot, but Draco’s having trouble concentrating.

The hairs are still up on the back of his neck.

The Minister wants to talk about moving up the date for the ritual, and it’s a good strategic move to pin Draco here, get his agreement now, instead of a costly agreement from Father or the brangling from the committees but Draco can’t concentrate. His mind keeps throwing up scenarios of all the most absurd things Harry could do, out there, furious, or worse, alone in Grimmauld Place.

“Something on your mind?” the Minister asks at last, when Draco’s jumpy nerves have spilled his tea for the third time and he’s agreed to move things along and change the reception dates (Potter will kill him) and generally failed to behave like a Malfoy.

“Can’t we send a Weasely after him?” Draco asks desperately.

“A Weasely?”

“A Weasely. Any Weasely,” Draco says, throwing caution to the wind. “Just….have them stop by for a chat.”

The Minister looks surprised. “I’m sure he’s calmed down by now. Once he’s home—”

“Home?” Draco’s hand trembles. “With the ghosts of the people who died?”

The Minister looks surprised.

“He’s probably in the sitting room,” Draco realizes, horrified. He’d seen the way it was arranged now, and if you sat in the most comfortable armchair in the room, the one by the fire, it’s perfectly situated to enjoy the crackling flames and a nice long chat with what must certainly be the removed-to-look-less-crazy-for-the-meeting photographs and portraits. There were even lace doilies on some of those little tables, doilies but nothing on the doilies, and one simply does not do that. At the time, Draco’d put it down to the elderly house elf, but the rest of the house gleamed. Not as much as the sitting room, but still, gleamed. And if the sitting room is the most beautiful, most cared for…

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s where he talks to—” Draco stops. He sets his cup down. “You’re thinking like you, like a normal person, but he doesn’t think that way. He’s sitting in his sitting room, and he’s imagining what it would be like to learn about their deaths from a front page photo on the Prophet. Watch each one die, over and over. That’s what he’s doing.”

“I think you’d better go,” the Minister says. “Right now.”

*

Draco goes, but Grimmauld Place won’t let him in.

He sits on the stoop for an hour.

He owls Granger.

He owls Ron Weasely.

He owls his Father.

But no matter who he asks, where he tries next, Harry isn’t there and no one can find him.

*

The next day’s Prophet runs a letter to the editor, from Harry Potter, apologizing for the photo. “No one should have to see their loved one that way. I meant to destroy the photos taken at the explosion site, but I ran out of time. It’s no excuse. I’m sorry if this is how you found out.”

It goes on for only three paragraphs, stark and simple.

A plain, brutal apology, no mention of blame to anyone else.

*

Draco calls up one of Father’s contacts, goes to see for himself, but he already knows what he’ll learn.

Yesterday, Harry spent his day visiting the relatives of the people who were in the photo, apologizing in person, to every single one.

*

There’s a committee meeting today, one Draco can’t miss, but Draco misses it and apparates to Grimmauld Place.

He has to bang on the door for over an hour.

Harry opens it, still wearing black dress robes, the most elegant and formal ensemble Draco’s seen him in, suitable for state funerals, obviously slept in, or perhaps, laid down on, since the man obviously hasn’t rested, perhaps in decades. He looks terrible, his hair in even longer spikes, his skin gone alabaster. His eyes look haunted. “Malfoy?”

“Potter.”

Harry just stares stupidly.

Draco raises one eyebrow. “Potter, let me in.”

“Aren’t there meetings or something today? You’re here to fetch me?”

“There are meetings. Let me in.” Draco risks his life and shoves at Harry’s chest, which doesn’t budge, although Harry does stare down at Draco’s hand like he’s never seen one before. “Potter, your house is feeling protective. You need to explicitly let me in.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Malfoy can come in.” He looks around vaguely, then adds, “Be nice to him, OK?”

Then he shuffles back out of the doorway into the gloom, like maybe he feels better in the dark and the gray and the grief.

Maybe he does.

Draco takes a step inside, and the door shuts behind him without a touch.

The atmosphere is different today, and no wonder. The gloom is deep and forbidding, the air chill and cool, and Draco can distinctly smell a whiff of the cellars.

“I said,” Harry adds, and he sounds like a Black again, “Be nice.”

The cellar scent fades.

“Better,” Harry says, nodding. “OK, Malfoy, this way, but keep your voice down.”

“Of course, Potter.” Draco follows, and he gets halfway through the hall when the eldrich shade of their old headmaster rises from the carpet, pointing.

Draco screams and bolts backward, heart in his throat, as Dumbledore raises a ghostly hand.

The curtains on the portrait on the wall shoot open and a woman begins wailing mad curses and imprecations, her voice so like Aunt Bella’s Draco screams again, trips on the carpet and falls over.

“WHAT DID I SAY?” Harry’s whipped out his wand and he points it right at the floor. “I SAID _BE NICE_.”

The curtains fall over the portrait again with a loud bang, and Dumbledore turns to dust.

“Better.” Harry tucks his wand away. “Do that again, and we’ll have a nice long chat. You know how much you like our little chats.”

The gloomy air becomes less cold, and Harry turns back to Draco. “Sorry about that.”

Draco’s on his backside on the floor, trying to remain at least partially upright, choking in breaths as best he can.

Harry hurries over, crouching down. “Jesus, Malfoy, are you OK?”

Draco shakes his head back and forth, because no, he’s really not OK.

“Need a minute?” Harry asks, and he’s actually bending over, gently helping Draco back up, straightening his robes. “I really am sorry.”

“Knew it was a risk,” Draco manages. His heart is still pounding a mile a minute. “It’s the House of Black.”

“Er, right.” Harry smiles, and his glasses are crooked. He shoves them back on his nose. “Kind of…”

“Volatile, dangerous, passionate,” Draco manages. “That’s how Mother describes the Black line.”

“That’s….apt. I like the passionate part.”

“I always like to replace ‘passionate’ with ‘really fucking crazy’.”

Harry’s lip twitches. “That’s….more apt.”

“You’re not going to deny it?”

“I live here, Malfoy. I’d never deny it.”

*

Potter offers to take him to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

“I’d prefer the sitting room,” Draco says.

“I’d rather not. You’ll like the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea.”

“I don’t want tea. Take me to your bedroom.”

Potter’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a fascinating request, Malfoy, but…”

“Harry. It’s not a request. Take me to your bedroom, so I can get you to sleep.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m fine. I’ll make you a cup of tea before you go.”

“You’re not fine. Let’s find some brandy, and I’ll give you one, and then you can sleep.”

“You are relentless.”

“You have no idea.” Draco speaks calmly to the air. “Perhaps your house elf will prepare a bath first.”

“I’m not letting you give me a bath like I’m a toddler!” Potter throws up his hands. “If I have a glass of brandy, will that make you happy?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and what a good idea. He smiles seductively. “If you drink your glass of medicinal brandy, that will make me very happy.”

“Oh fine.” Potter looks around, like he’s wondering where the brandy lives, grumpy and resentful.

“I’m sure it will be waiting for us when we go upstairs.”

“I’m not taking you to my bedroom.”

“You are if you want me to leave.”

“Oh for—” Potter slumps. He looks so tired he might die. “Why do I argue with you?”

Because you’re proud and powerful, Draco thinks, and because you know I find easy people boring. “Come on, Potter, before your portrait wakes up again.”

“Yeah, OK, fine.” He heads towards the stairs and Draco follows. The bedroom is tiny and ridiculous and the bed is worse. This does not belong to the master of the House of Black. It can’t. But there’s a bottle of brandy and two glasses on a tray, perfect.

Draco will just have to address the issue later. He checks the label on the bottle, then pours, a small measure for himself and rather a large one for Harry. “Take it slow,” he says, handing it over. “But keep drinking until it’s gone.”

Harry glares and knocks back half of it, but he doesn’t choke. He blinks, then looks at his glass. “Wow.”

“Indeed.” It’s delicate and floral, a summer blend, and Draco knows it should bring sweet dreams. “Let’s get your robes off.”

“Jesus, Malfoy, you’re not serious.”

“You may finish your drink first,” Draco says, all politeness, “But then I am putting you to bed.”

“I guess you heard my fight with Kingsley.”

“Potter, the entire floor heard your fight with Kingsley. There are probably people in Scotland who heard your fight with Kingsley.”

“Yeah. I guess.” He turns the glass in his hand, finishes it with an arrogance that tells Draco he doesn’t know what it’s worth. Or is just a Black.

“Did you think I would object to what you said?”

Harry turns away, standing in the shadows of the small bedroom, the shabbiness and wear matching the slumped shoulders. “I thought you might.”

“I told him he was an idiot.” Draco sips his own brandy. “Well. More politely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Potter, you and I have known each other a long time, years and years, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry.”

“I should have destroyed the cameras.”

“You can’t do everything. Someone you trusted said it would be taken care of, and you can’t do everything. You went back to helping people.”

“And flower arrangements, and wedding colors, and being kissed.”

“I think you’ll find you gave the flower arrangements to me, but you only kept that appointment because the ritual is what will help. It’s what will cure the fracturing magic.”

“I know, but…” He brushes a hand over an old, battered desk Draco would have burned for kindling. “It feels wrong. Like complaining about eating burned pike when people are dying.”

“Is that what you ate, during the war?”

“Sometimes.”

Draco touches his arm slowly, because he’s not an idiot. He knows Potter has trouble being touched unexpectedly, and he doesn’t want to wind up with a wand at his throat. But after the first flinch, Draco leads him to bed, eases him to sit down, takes off his boots, kicks off his own.

“You said you would go if I drank the brandy.”

“No, I said if you drank the brandy it would make me happy.” Draco slips his socks off, too, then his own outer robes, then under robes. He’s wearing bespoke boxers, of course, because he’s traditional but not that traditional. “Come on, you next.”

“What are you doing?”

Draco starts in on the buttons, real jet carved with the Peverell Peony design. “I’m taking these off, then I’m going to kiss you to sleep.”

“You’re going to what?”

“You heard me.” There are miles of the buttons, they go on forever. “I’m going to lay you down, and I’m going to hold you, and I’m going to kiss you to sleep.”

“Look, Malfoy, I don’t sleep great, it happens. I have meetings and—”

“I’m going to lay you down, and I’m going to hold you, and I’m going to kiss you to sleep.” Draco brushes a quick kiss to his jaw. “Harry, how long has it been since you slept?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “A while.”

“Then let’s try this. OK?”

“But…”

“Please?”

“If you want.”

“Thank you.”

*

Draco got the robes off easily once Potter stopped squirming, and the bed was small, but big enough to fit them both if Draco held him close. The kissing had been luxurious, slow and easy, satisfying. Draco whispered into his ear a few times, “yes, just like that,” and “so lovely,” and “you’re so good,” and it’s the last he returns to again and again, “so good,” and “so good,” and “so good,” because whenever he does, Harry looks like he wants to believe it, and so Draco says it, and knows, with a sharp bitter ache, that Harry doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who read this, thank you. I will be posting more soon.


End file.
